


Familiar Habits

by Philosophics



Category: Overwatch (Video Game)
Genre: Anal Sex, Fluff, Getting Together, Hurt/Comfort, Insomnia, M/M, Slow Burn, Smut, let these old men rest, really just shameless romance who am i kidding
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-07-28
Updated: 2016-07-28
Packaged: 2018-07-27 02:02:39
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 8,176
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7599118
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Philosophics/pseuds/Philosophics
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>After joining Overwatch, Hanzo finds it difficult to sleep some nights. It is nothing a hot cup of tea cannot fix, but he never expected that he would have company.</p><p>(or: hanzo is very thirsty, in more ways than one)</p>
            </blockquote>





	Familiar Habits

 

Hanzo’s first night in the Overwatch base is a cold one. Despite its normally mild climate, Gibraltar at night is unexpectedly chilly this time of year. It must be an abnormal cold front sweeping through--perhaps an omen of a cold winter to come.

He stubbornly refuses to think about the possibility that the erratic shivers running along his skin are not a symptom of temperature, but of rattled nerves.

A glance at the small clock beside his bed informs him it is three in the morning with no promise of sleep in sight. With a sigh, he throws back the thin grey blankets pooled around his torso--courtesy of the recently-reformed Overwatch--and swings his feet over the edge of the bed. Fortunately his prosthetics save him from the shock of a cold floor. Small gratitudes, he supposes. He’ll take any of those he can get these days.

He ties his hair up hastily and slips both his arms into the sleeves of his robes. The door slides shut behind him with a small _whoosh_ as he steps out of his room. The hallway is dark and silent, with only dim strips of lights near the floor to illuminate the way. He tugs the edges of his robes tighter around himself and sets off in what he thinks is the direction of the kitchen. Perhaps a cup of tea will warm him up enough to maybe get a few hours of sleep.

To his relief he encounters no one as he pads silently down the corridors, only shut doors and blank walls. He feels himself shiver again and speeds up.

_Overwatch welcomed me with open arms; I am sure they will do the same for you._

Genji’s words to him, spoken during one quiet evening weeks ago on a moonlit rooftop, surface unbidden in his mind. If he did not doubt them before, he certainly does now. His jaw clenches--a knee-jerk reaction to any thought of his late--no, very much alive brother. Now _there_ is a thought he does not wish to dwell on at this hour. He has yet to even see his brother at all; he is likely off on some extended mission elsewhere.

Belatedly, Hanzo realizes that he has tensed unconsciously, muscles wound up tight as a bowstring, and forces himself to relax. He has been doing that quite often lately. Funny how a visit from a brother you had long thought dead will do that to you.

Finally, he reaches the communal kitchen that the doctor-- _call me Angela,_ she had said to him with a gentle smile _\--_ pointed out to him earlier on her short tour of the facility. He is too wrapped up in his thoughts to notice the faint sliver of light spilling out from under the door, and by the time he does the door has already slid open.

The first thing he sees is that the kitchen lights have been turned on to a dim glow. The second is the man sitting on a chair at the table facing him, a mug in his hands.

“Howdy.”

Hanzo blinks, momentarily thrown. He takes in the man’s appearance by reflex: disheveled brown hair and untrimmed beard, wearing a pair of threadbare sweatpants and a white t-shirt that looks like it has seen better days. Oddly, what appears to be a cowboy hat rests beside him on the table. When the man continues to look at him expectantly, one eyebrow rising, he realizes he is staring and jerks his gaze away, clearing his throat.

“Greetings,” he manages to mutter out in reply, quickly walking past the man toward the cupboards. He had not expected to see anyone at this ungodly hour. Mentally, he chastises himself for being so absent-minded--something he has found himself doing rather too much of for his liking as of late. His alertness has always been something he has prided himself in, but lately he has caught himself--with infuriating frequency--hopelessly distracted, mind wandering. Ever since his entire world shifted underneath his feet several months ago, when his brother--Hanzo quickly quells this train of thought.

He can almost physically feel the other man’s gaze boring into his back, but he busies himself with rummaging through the cupboards. Blessedly, he finds a canister of _sencha_ \--Genji’s?--behind several containers of coffee, oatmeal and, strangely enough, instant popcorn. He also locates a small kettle and a tea strainer nearby and puts some water on the stove to boil. Just these practiced motions are enough to calm him down somewhat--habits borne of years of familiar routine.

“So what brings you here at this godawful time o’ the night?”

He does not flinch at the sudden voice, low and languid, but it is a near thing. He nearly forgot about the other man’s presence. He turns just enough to level him with a cool look.

“I could not sleep, so I am making some tea,” he says curtly, inviting no response. He gets one anyway.

“You too, huh?” The man runs a hand through his hair, further tousling the already messy locks, and offers a crooked smile when he sees Hanzo look at him. “‘S strange. It’s the same ol’ base, but it feels--weird somehow, bein’ here again. Familiar, but... strange.”

One of the old Overwatch members then, Hanzo thinks. He stares pointedly at the kettle, hoping the man--he cannot recall what his name could be--will take the hint and leave him be. Naturally, it is just his luck that that does not happen.

“Anyhow, what’s your name? Don’t think we’ve met yet.”

For some reason, he finds himself bristling--whether at the man’s nonchalant tone or that heavy, lilting accent, he does not know. He turns around, irritation growing when the man’s grin only widens under his sharp glare.

“How rude o’ me. Should introduce myself first. Name’s Jesse McCree, but you can jus’ call me Jesse.”

“... Hanzo--” he hesitates for the briefest of moments, resisting the urge to look away. “Shimada.”

To his credit, the man-- _McCree_ _\--_ does not bat an eye. He does, however, let out a low whistle.

“So you’re the famous Hanzo. Heard a lotta ‘bout ya.” Hanzo turns away at this, back tensing, bracing himself for--“I’m mighty glad someone o’ your skill chose to join us.”

He blinks, caught off-balance a second time. A glance over his shoulder reveals only sincerity in McCree’s expression. Hanzo does not know how to respond so he says nothing, focusing on preparing his tea. He does not sit, choosing instead to stand awkwardly by the stove. The smell of the green tea, grassy and comforting, soothes him, as does the first sip, the warm liquid rolling over his tongue and pooling comfortably in his belly. Familiar.

The sound of a chair scraping the floor pulls his attention back to the man behind him. McCree stands-- _he’s tall_ , Hanzo notices--and reaches past him to place his emptied mug in the sink.

“Well, I’m downright tuckered. G’night,” McCree drawls easily, seemingly unperturbed by his lack of response, and steps toward the door, hat in hand. Hanzo abruptly regains the presence of mind to realize he does not want to come off as plain _rude_ and scrabbles for some sort of response.

“...You too.”

Without turning around, the man gives him a jaunty half-salute before the door slides shut.

A muted silence falls in the wake of his exit. At a loss, Hanzo stares at his half-drunk tea for several more minutes, the warmth of the cup seeping slowly through his skin and into his bones, then downs the rest in three large gulps.

He is careful to turn the lights off as he leaves.

Back in his room, lying in the unfamiliar bed, he spends a few groggy moments staring at the ceiling. He does not think about the awkward encounter in the kitchen. Thankfully the tea seems to have helped; he does not feel so cold anymore. Sleep eventually overtakes him, slowly but surely.

 

\---

 

To his chagrin, the chance meeting with McCree turns out not to be a one time thing. A mere four days later Hanzo finds himself once again sleepless in the kitchen at three AM, a cup of _sencha_ in front of him, the liquid a dark pool in the low light.

This time he is the one interrupted by the doors opening to let McCree step heavily into the kitchen. For a split second the man looks just as startled to see Hanzo as Hanzo is to see him, but he takes it in stride easily enough.

“Howdy,” he greets him amiably.

Hanzo merely nods in acknowledgment. He is pretty sure McCree is wearing the same rumpled shirt and sweatpants he was wearing four nights ago, and his hair looks just as--if not _more_ \--mussed. He wrinkles his nose slightly in distaste. McCree does not appear to notice, too preoccupied with making a beeline toward the coffee machine.

Just like the first night, a heavy silence falls between them, broken only by the soft _drip, drip_ of the coffee machine. Hanzo chooses not to question the man’s choice in midnight beverage. He stares resolutely into his tea instead.

McCree sits across from him but does not try to make conversation again. Hanzo allows himself to feel a bit of relief that he can sort through his thoughts in peace. He replays the day’s events in his head.

It had been team training day, which meant back-to-back training simulations. Training is nothing new to him. In fact, he finds something fundamentally _grounding_ about dedicating himself to one objective, honing his skills and sharpening his focus with each practiced routine. Training is welcome. Familiar. But training with his fellow agents is something else entirely.

It is not that his new teammates are incompetent; far from it. Their skill and potential are impressive--he can at least admit that much--but he is used to working alone, in quiet. He is unused to the chaos of fighting alongside multiple people with such different strengths and skillsets. The sheer energy, the incessant shouts in his ear from the communicator which he can still feel bouncing around in his head hours later--it all drains him, throws him off and disorients him to the point of vertigo. As a result, his own performance was less than acceptable by his standards.

No matter. He will become used to it, in time, preferably sooner rather than later. He must. He does not allow himself to think of the alternative.

A quiet cough pulls him from his thoughts. Once again, he forgot about McCree’s presence. _Careless._

Hanzo looks over at him discreetly. McCree is definitely wearing the same shirt and pants. At the moment, he appears to be engrossed in staring into the depths of his mug as if the secrets of the world lie within it. He must sense his eyes on him as he looks up abruptly, flashes him that same lazy smile. Hanzo frowns and looks away.

There are dark shadows under the man's eyes. Hanzo wonders, fleetingly, what it is that drives the other man to the solace of the dark kitchen in the dead hours of the night. He is almost tempted to ask him about it. Almost.

 

\---

 

It happens a third time, then a fourth, until it becomes something of a routine for them, bumping into each other in the kitchen on the sleepless nights that would strike every so often.

Occasionally they are joined by someone else--Angela after a particularly long day of work, Mei finally surfacing from her stacks of research papers, D.Va and Lúcio after a stream run overtime grabbing a snack before bed--and if they find anything strange about the two men sitting at the kitchen table in the dead of morning they do not voice it.

But usually it is just the two of them: Hanzo with his tea and McCree with his coffee, his hat always next to him, without fail, sitting together at the table in a silence that has slowly grown to be less awkward and more comfortable.

 

\---

 

It is an entire two weeks after he joins Overwatch before he finally sees Genji.

Hanzo slept fitfully the night before, hounded by vague dreams that slipped away as soon as he tried to make sense of them; he woke up sweating and disoriented.

After hastily washing up, he dragged himself down to the kitchen in hopes that breakfast would calm his unsettled stomach. As such, he finds himself sitting in the communal kitchen shortly thereafter--at a decent hour for once, he thinks to himself wryly--with a small muffin on a plate in front of him.

Angela is leaning against a counter, conversing quietly with a tall dark-haired woman--Pharah. Reinhardt and Torbjörn are arguing good-naturedly by the toaster. D.Va is sitting with Lúcio and Tracer a short distance away, the three of them chatting animatedly whilst watching something on a tablet.

It is… nearly pleasant in a way, Hanzo muses as he sips his tea. Although he sits alone, he does not mind it. He prefers it this way. When he finishes his breakfast and brings his plate to the sink, Angela offers him a small smile as he passes; he nods back.

A familiar-yet-not voice drifts from just down the hall. He turns without thinking and suddenly feels as if he has been hit squarely in the chest with a sack of bricks. Genji is at the open door, talking with McCree and a floating omnic-- _Zenyatta_ , Hanzo recalls distantly. When he sees Hanzo, he cuts off.

No amount of mental steeling could have prepared Hanzo for actually seeing his brother here in person, no matter how unrecognizable his appearance is now. It is different, somehow, from when Genji had confronted him in Hanamura or sought him out to extend Overwatch’s invitation. Perhaps it is the soft morning sunlight streaming in through the kitchen window or the casual way Genji is stopped in the doorway, looking entirely unfamiliar but with that same, startlingly familiar _stance_ that Hanzo remembers so well--has seen before in countless instances just like this, in a different time. The sight leaves him winded and wide-eyed and at a loss for words.

“Brother.” Genji is the first to speak, stepping into the room. “It is good to see you.”

The kitchen has gone quiet. Hanzo is painfully aware of everyone’s eyes on him. He forces himself to take air into his lungs, grabs at the shreds of his composure.

“Brother,” he responds a beat too late, the word sounding ragged and distant to his own ears, then falters. He cannot quite bring himself to continue even as the silence stretches onward. He is painfully aware of McCree’s thoughtful gaze on him, is sure that Zenyatta is fixing him with the same scrutiny despite the omnic’s unreadable mask.

He is overwhelmed by a desperate urge to escape the stifling room and the questioning stares, to hide himself, to run far away. Instead, he schools his expression, carefully avoiding meeting the disapproving eyes of those around him, and walks out of the room, brushing past the trio wordlessly.

He would excuse himself, but his chest has gone painfully tight and he cannot spare the breath.

 

\---

 

Hanzo is no fool. He does not doubt that some of them would outright dislike him, are perhaps disgusted by him. After all, it is plain to see that Genji was--is still _\--_ their cherished comrade. He has seen the furtive glances they toss his way when they think he does not notice: inquisitive at best, just shy of openly hostile at worst, wary and appraising the moment he meets their eyes, as if they are stepping delicately around a wild animal that may bolt at any moment. Pointed looks like sharp barbs, heavy, judging, accusatory, _disappointed/_

He does not blame them; after all, they are the same kind of looks as the ones he sees whenever he chances a glance in the mirror.

 

\---

 

Hanzo strides into the kitchen that night at three o’clock on the dot. Unsurprisingly, McCree is already there, coffee at hand. Hanzo ignores him and takes out the tea, then the kettle and a cup, and sets out water to boil. His motions are quick and desperate, as if his life depends on this small, mundane routine. Perhaps it does; he barely knows himself anymore, these days.

“Y’know, I was a right mess when I joined Blackwatch.”

He jerks his gaze to McCree, startled more than he cares to admit by the cowboy speaking up out of the blue. It is the first time he has tried to make conversation since the first night.

The other man is looking down at his mug--which has a bizarre frog picture printed on one side, Hanzo notes--absently swirling his coffee. “Hell, I still kinda am sometimes.”

Hanzo says nothing, unsure of where the conversation is heading. He knows, of course, of Blackwatch--what it was, and what it really had been.

“Before that--well, let’s just say I was recruited straight outta the Deadlock Gang, back in the day.” Hanzo has heard of the outlaw group as well; it had garnered its fair share of notoriety, once upon a time. “Was either that or a one-way ticket to the slammer--and, well, Reyes wouldn’t take the latter for an answer.” McCree chuckles, the sound rich and tinged with some complex emotion he cannot discern.

Hanzo swallows, preparing his tea with jerky movements before bringing his cup to the table and tentatively taking a seat across from McCree, who appears to have lapsed into a contemplative silence. Something compels him to hear the man out, so he sits quietly and waits for him to continue.

“Point is,” McCree resumes after a few moments, “I should be the last person to judge ya for your past. We all got our demons, each of us our own skeletons in the closet, so to speak--me ‘specially. I guess what I’m tryin’ to say is I know a thing or two ‘bout tryin’ to come to terms with the past, and makin’ peace with your ghosts”--he flashes him a wry smile--“though I s’pose in your case it’s the literal sense o’ the word.”

Hanzo lets out a small huff and allows the briefest of smiles to tug at his lips. Despite how casually McCree brings up the sensitive topic, he obviously means no offense and Hanzo cannot find it in him to feel any annoyance.

“I would not be surprised if anyone in the base thinks ill of me. I would certainly expect so, if they know half of what I have done.” He spares the man the gory details; he can probably piece it together on his own anyway. He looks down at his tea, watching the steam rise from his cup in pale, twisting curls. Genji was always fascinated by the sight as a child; it was the only thing that could ever make him sit still during tea time. He once confessed that it reminded him of the Dragons, roiling and ethereal. Secretly, Hanzo had always thought the same. He feels something tighten in his chest, behind his ribs. “I do not know if I can ever atone for it.”

“Ain’t nobody out there who’s beyond redemption, so long as they're willing,” McCree says, taking a generous swig of coffee, “from one wretched soul to another. It ain’t easy, in the beginning. I would know. Hell, even now it still ain’t always all sunshine and daisies for me. Ain’t most days, in fact.” He tips his head at his mug.

Hanzo says nothing, cannot find any words to say.

“An' Hanzo?”

He looks up, startled at the use of his name. McCree’s eyes glimmer amber in the low light. He fixes him with an intent look, heavy with meaning and frank in a way Hanzo has not seen in a long while. It skewers him in place like one of his own arrows, stops him dead in his thoughts and robs him of his breath. “If there’s some hope for me, there sure as hell gotta be hope for you. But ya don't gotta do it alone.”

Hanzo swallows thickly around the sudden constriction of his throat. The entire conversation has thrown him for a loop. He feels once again as if the world has been sent spinning on its axis: it tilts, churns, resettles around him, leaving him dizzy.

“... Thank you,” he manages at last. He receives a smile in return, slow and sweet as honey, before it is hidden when the other man lifts his mug to his lips. Hanzo follows suit and takes a small sip of the hot tea, feeling strangely lightheaded.

 _Redemption._ He turns the word over in his mind cautiously, examining it from all angles, feels the shape and weight of it.

_Perhaps I am a fool to think that there is still hope for you, but I do._

Genji’s words to him that fateful night in Hanamura ring in his mind, clear like the chime of a bell. For the first time, he begins to feel that, perhaps, there is some truth to them after all.

McCree graciously does not look at his hands, wrapped around his mug and trembling hard enough to create ripples in the tea, and for that Hanzo is grateful.

 

\---

 

“Why do you drink coffee?” he asks the gunslinger the eighth time they meet out of insomnia. It is, after all, an unconventional choice for a midnight snack, not to mention the man always takes his black.

McCree laughs ruefully. “Jus’ an old habit I picked up from my days on the road. At night I'd brew coffee the good ol'-fashioned way: over the open fire, under the stars.” He shrugs. “‘Course, it ain’t the same, this instant stuff, but it still puts me at ease regardless.”

Hanzo nods in comprehension. He may not understand the appeal of the drink itself--it is far too bitter and strong for his own tastes--but he understands habit. Familiarity in routine. Solace in the small things.

With a start, Hanzo realizes that _this_ \--their brief meetings in the kitchen at three AM, two alike souls keeping each other company for a short while--has become just that to him: a habit. Comforting and familiar.

He feels something within him twist at the thought, tentative and new. It is not unpleasant.

 

\---

 

McCree stumbles into the kitchen one night looking rattled and shaken--the look of a man who has just seen a ghost. Hanzo knows the feeling well.

He watches as the other man staggers over to the coffee machine. Within moments, the sound of brewing coffee fills the air. McCree all but collapses into the chair opposite his, clutching his mug to him like a lifeline.

Hanzo looks on with sympathy. “So,” he says mildly, after several moments, “disconcerting, isn’t it? Seeing the dead.”

McCree gapes at him as if he has suddenly grown two more heads. Hanzo feels the corner of his mouth twitching upward, hides it behind the rim of his cup.

The other man huffs out a breath--half-laugh, half-gasp--and drags a rough palm over his face. Then he swears, lowly: “Aw, hell.”

Hanzo waits patiently.

“Never expected her to be alive, after all these years.” McCree rubs at his eyes, looking as if he has aged ten years in a day.

Ana Amari. The previous second-in-command of the old Overwatch, long thought dead, now back in the land of the living. Already, Hanzo feels himself tiring of these sorts of stories.

He does not say this. Instead he says, delicately, “You were close to her.”

McCree leans into the table, running a hand through his hair. Hanzo watches the messy strands fall against swarthy skin absently. “She was… like a mentor to me, I s’pose.” He rubs at the back of his neck. “I was just some kid, y’see, back when I first joined Overwatch. Just some punk kid. Could barely see past the muzzle o’ my gun. Ana wouldn’t have none o’ that--knocked some sense into me, she did.” Despite his weary expression, his tone is undeniably tinged with fondness.

“She certainly seems”--Hanzo pauses, searching for a suitable word--“formidable.”

From first glance, Ana Amari exuded the sort of wisdom and competence that comes only with long years of experience. He could see it in the sure slope of her shoulders. The imposing way she carried herself. Her piercing gaze, sharp as a hawk’s.

“Heh. That’s puttin’ it lightly,” McCree rasps, chuckling. He lifts his head, takes a gulp of coffee, then continues, quieter, “Hell, I can say with all certainty that I wouldn’t be the man y’see before ya today if it weren’t for her.”

Obligingly, Hanzo gives him a cursory once-over: dark smudges under his eyes, worn cotton shirt--gray this time--stretched thin across broad shoulders, thick hair in perpetual disorder. He decides to keep his remark about McCree’s disheveled state to himself.

“You are angry with her,” he says instead. A question.

“In all honesty, darlin’, I haven’t got the damndest clue how I feel right now.”

Hanzo blinks at the offhanded endearment. McCree tips his head, throwing back the rest of his drink. Hanzo finds his gaze drawn to the long column of his throat, the way his dark hair curls ever so slightly at the base of his neck, the sharp cut of a collarbone. He quickly averts his eyes before the other man can notice, and takes a sip of tea that does nothing to soothe the way his mouth has suddenly run dry as a desert.

“Thanks for listenin’ to my ramblin’,” McCree says finally. “We’ll figure this out. Both of us.”

Hanzo knows he is referring to him and Genji. For once he does not balk at the mention of his brother, simply nods.

“Yes.”

 

\---

 

They are dispatched together on a team mission two days later. It is a fairly straightforward one: intercept and apprehend a payload belonging to Talon. It is not the first mission Hanzo has been on with McCree but this one feels different, somehow. Not to mention, Genji is with them on this mission as well. Hanzo thinks that their relationship has improved since the encounter weeks ago; he is now able to be in the same room as Genji without completely shutting down, for one.

He sighs inwardly. He knows he must talk to his brother. He cannot continue taking the coward’s way out.

McCree leaves the others and ambles over to him as he is checking his bow and quiver. Hanzo can hear him before he sees him: McCree’s spurs alone are enough to alert him of the cowboy’s approach--as well as everyone within a five kilometer radius, he is sure.

“Ready, pardner?” the gunslinger asks cheerfully. He is wearing his usual combat getup complete with his signature hat and serape. By this point, Hanzo is convinced that he has just two states of dress: full gear or ratty t-shirt and sweatpants.

Hanzo swings his quiver over his shoulder, fastening it securely and testing its give, then reaches up and tightens the scarf in his hair. He does not miss the way McCree’s eyes zero in on the flex of his muscles, lazily following the coils of his tattoo upward until they meet his. Hanzo fixes him with a flat look, huffing when he just receives a cheeky closed-eyed grin in return.

“Yes. Are _you?_ ” Hanzo looks pointedly at the cigar dangling from the corner of McCree’s mouth.

“Yep,” McCree replies, making no move to remove it.

Hanzo rolls his eyes and is about to open his mouth to retort when he is interrupted by the beeping of the communicator in their ears. _“Target approach imminent.”_

“Well, that’s our cue,” McCree says, probably too gleefully considering the situation. He gives him one of his cheery half-salutes and saunters away--into position, presumably--cigar smoking all the while.

Hanzo turns swiftly, mind immediately locking down in mission mode. He wastes no time in making his way to the abandoned buildings nearby, quickly scouting out the small plaza and the surrounding area. Once he is sure it is clear, he scales a wall easily to reach a secure location with a good vantage point, and waits.

Soon enough, he spots the payload in question in the distance rounding the corner, along with an accompanying escort vehicle. He sees his teammates spring into action, fanning out and making quick work of the first few agents that jump out.

He detects movement from a window several buildings away. _A sniper_ , he realizes, already moving; his current location does not afford him a good angle for a shot. Stealthily he climbs up to the roof, making sure to stays low as he makes his way toward the sniper. He nocks an arrow to his bow and draws it in one practiced motion. His arrow finds his target right as they lift their rifle to their eye, and they slump over. Immediately, Hanzo dashes into a different position in anticipation of returned fire. When there is none, he moves cautiously toward the building to assure it is empty.

Below him, enemy agents spill out from a second escort vehicle that has just arrived, joining the first.

 _“More enemy agents approaching!”_ Zarya’s voice booms through the communicator. Hanzo grits his teeth; they had not anticipated reinforcements. No matter--they will deal with them as they must. Already, he can see Genji swiftly making his way behind a group of enemies, _shuriken_ at the ready.

He loosens two more arrows, both of which find their marks in the necks of two enemies attempting to flank the payload. Another takes out a second sniper who has appeared in a window across the street.

Out of the corner of his eye, he sees several enemies struggling against one of Zarya’s gravity bombs only to be wiped out a moment later by Pharah’s rockets. To the side, he spots the gleam of a blade.

Instead of watching, he focuses on guarding the perimeter and sniping at enemies whenever he gets the opportunity.

He spots a group of enemies running between the buildings, under cover, in an attempt to circle around. He follows. A well-aimed scattering arrow takes care of three of them before he has to drop down and take cover in a warehouse below amid returning gunfire. Unfortunately, the two remaining agents are soon joined by several others emerging from around a corner. He curses under his breath as they close in on his position, crouched behind a large crate.

Belatedly, he notices a shallow cut on his arm where a bullet must have grazed him earlier. He can feel the thrum of the Dragons’ power humming just beneath his tattoo, ready to snap and devour on command. He glances over his shoulder, assessing: though they are still a good distance away, the agents have split up and are approaching from opposite sides, weaving back and forth, preventing him from getting a good shot.

He reaches for an arrow; reconsiders. Shifts his weight onto the balls of his feet and prepares to flee.

Distantly he hears the familiar jingle of spurs, and catches a glimpse of scarlet fabric from a doorway ahead to his left. For a still moment there is a glint of something red from the shadows--then, a flurry of gunshots, six in rapid succession, followed closely by the crumpling of six bodies.

He relaxes, then stands. McCree steps out and turns to face him. Hanzo realizes he is still chewing on that damned cigar. He grins around it, all teeth, cocksure. “Fancy meetin’ you here,” he says, and winks.

Instead of responding, Hanzo draws an arrow, nocks it, and fires past him in one smooth motion, aim steady and sure. From behind McCree, there is a choked-off noise then a thump of a body hitting the ground--an enemy agent who just rounded the corner.

“You missed one,” Hanzo deadpans, smirking.

“Why, so I did,” McCree drawls, eyes never once leaving him. Just like that night they talked of redemption and _hope_ , those eyes pin him in place--intense and striking and warm all at once.

Hanzo attributes the erratic pounding of his heart in his ears to the heat of battle.

 

\---

 

The mission ends up being a success despite the miscalculation of enemy numbers. The team takes out the remaining agents after that with ease, and they are able to successfully seize the payload.

Much later, Hanzo finds himself in the shooting ranges, firing arrow after arrow at the targets. It had been two AM when he stumbled down here out of sheer restlessness. He has no idea how much time has passed; it feels like it has been hours, yet his efforts at calming down have proven fruitless.

He had considered heading to the kitchen for a cup of tea as per usual, but when he thought of who he might see there--

He can still remember, with vivid clarity, McCree’s eyes, earlier that day, when he let his gaze linger heavy and heated on him.

It had been… far from unwelcome, he decides, surprising himself with the revelation. He pauses to rub a hand over his left arm. His tattoo still tingles faintly. In fact, he feels the thrum of _something_ all over, leaving him giddy. He is not so foolish to dismiss it as mere post-battle adrenaline. Not anymore.

“Thought I’d find ya here.”

He turns. McCree leans against the doorway, clad in only sleep clothes and, absurdly, his hat.

“McCree,” he says. His fingers twitch involuntarily.

He turns away and raises his bow. He grabs another arrow, fits it against the notch of his bow and draws in a fluid movement. Breathes out. Releases. As expected, the arrow lodges itself squarely in the center of the target, just like all the others.

McCree whistles, long and low. Hanzo lowers his bow but does not look at him. “Why are you here?”

“Didn’t find ya in the kitchen,” the cowboy answers, as if that explains everything.

Hanzo remains silent.

“That was, uh. Great work,” McCree says abruptly. “Out in the field today.”

Hanzo runs two fingers along his bowstring, expression revealing nothing. He finally looks up when McCree steps into the room, stopping a short distance away.

McCree clears his throat awkwardly and takes off his hat, holding it to his chest. As usual, he is wearing a ratty, ill-fitting shirt. It rides up and reveals a sliver of toned skin when he runs a hand through his hair distractedly, mussing the thick brown locks beyond any semblance of order. Hanzo swallows, feeling a sudden rush of a different kind of giddiness. It surges through him so he feels lit up like a livewire, heady and searing in his veins until he cannot stay still another moment.

He steps towards the other man, jerkily, as if tugged by a rope, setting his bow aside. McCree appears to be frozen to the spot, eyeing him warily. Hanzo takes another step forward, then another, until he is right up in McCree’s space. To his mild consternation, he has to crane his head back to meet McCree's eyes. What he sees pleases him: those amber eyes reveal no uncertainty, only heat and, deeper within, some other emotion he cannot place right now.

He plucks McCree’s hat from his loose grasp and, standing on his toes, carefully sets it back in place on his head. McCree just stares down at him, wide-eyed.

Abruptly, Hanzo realizes he has never called him by his first name, so he does: “Jesse.” He says it slowly, contemplatively, as if savoring it. He finds that he quite likes the way it sits on his tongue so he says it again, against the other man’s lips.

McCree surges forward like some floodgate has been opened, spins them around until Hanzo’s back is to the wall, crowds close to him until they are pressed together from thighs to chest. Hanzo wraps his arms around McCree’s broad shoulders, pulling him closer still. McCree’s hands come up to rest comfortably on Hanzo’s hips, steadying him. He parts their lips just long enough to breathe out, “Darlin’,” before pressing back against him.

He tastes, faintly, of smoke and coffee and a heady flavor that must be his own. Hanzo tilts his head to get a better angle, slots his mouth more snugly against his. He starts slightly when McCree bites at his lip, then soothes the tender spot with his tongue. When he laps at his lips, then licks _in_ , Hanzo cannot keep a small sound from escaping him.

McCree groans, pulls away to press their foreheads together. “God, Hanzo,” he says, breathing his name like a prayer, “you got no idea--” Hanzo interrupts him with his mouth. “How long I’ve been”--another quick kiss--“wantin' to do this.”

His flesh hand comes up to cradle Hanzo’s cheek, rubs a thumb gently, reverently, over his cheekbone, looking downright ecstatic when Hanzo laughs softly.

“I think I may have some idea,” Hanzo replies, smirking. McCree barks out a laugh and smiles sheepishly.

“Hanzo…” he begins, then trails off, running his eyes over his undoubtedly flushed face, then the rest of him, appreciatively.

Hanzo slides his hands down to grip McCree’s upper arms, feeling the strength in the muscle there, and swallows thickly. He feels overheated, as if he will burst out of his skin at any moment, or combust, or both.

“I want you,” he says instead, voice coming out hoarse, and presses a kiss to his jaw.

McCree’s hands tighten briefly at his hips and he swoops down to kiss him dizzy. When he pulls back, Hanzo is glad he is propped against the wall; he does not know if he could stand otherwise.

“Your place or mine?” McCree grins at him crookedly.

“Mine,” Hanzo says and steps away somewhat shakily, disentangling himself. He grabs his bow then promptly turns and heads toward the door. When McCree still has not moved after a few moments, Hanzo throws him an impatient glare over his shoulder.

The other man tugs his gaze away from what had definitely been his ass, grinning wolfishly, and catches up with him in three long strides.

Fortunately the halls are as deserted as they usually are this hour. Hanzo leads them briskly through the silent base, feeling McCree’s heated gaze at his back all the while, until they reach his room. They step inside, and the doors slide shut behind them.

Hanzo has just enough time to set his bow down on the table before McCree has him backed against the wall again. In a corner of his mind Hanzo begins to suspect that this is a _thing_ of his, and finds that he does not mind in the slightest.

He wastes no time connecting their mouths again and threading his fingers through thick locks the way he has been itching to do for a long time, knocking that ridiculous hat to the floor in the process. McCree responds by tugging the scarf out of Hanzo’s ponytail so that his hair tumbles down around his shoulders and curling his hand in the loose strands. Hanzo shivers at the feeling of nails scraping gently against his scalp, breaks the kiss to find his breath.

McCree slips a hand into the front of his robe, pushing the folds back and baring his shoulders and chest. Hanzo helpfully unties his sash for him and lets his robe fall to the floor. McCree pulls back slightly to trail hooded eyes over the expanse of revealed skin illuminated by pale moonlight.

“So damn gorgeous,” he rasps, sliding his palms--one flesh, one metal--reverently over Hanzo’s arms and torso.

Hanzo shivers again, involuntarily, red to the tips of his ears. He distracts himself by tugging at McCree’s shirt. The other man obliges him and peels the entire thing over his head in one motion, unabashedly giving Hanzo a generous eyeful of his bare torso. Hanzo watches the play of muscle and skin, drinking in the view of a wide chest and firm stomach.

McCree tosses his shirt carelessly to one side. His hair is hopelessly tousled from pulling it off. Hanzo feels a rush of such _fondness_ at the sight that he leans up and kisses him again, runs his hands over warm skin, presses forward with his entire body until McCree stumbles backwards. They quickly divest themselves of their pants until it is just skin on heated skin.

The back of McCree’s knees hit the edge of the bed and he drags Hanzo down with him so that he sits astride him on the sheets. Hanzo takes a moment to take in the sight of the other man below him, follows the trail of dark hair on his navel down the sharp v-cut of his hips, then lower. His mouth is suddenly very dry.

“Like what you see?” McCree asks, leaning back against the pillows and waggling his brows. Hanzo huffs an exasperated breath and resists the urge to roll his eyes. He kisses him to shut him up, open-mouthed and _hungry_. Places his hands against McCree’s chest and leans forward so he can get closer, grinding _down_ \--

“Wait--” McCree tears his mouth away suddenly. Hanzo stubbornly refuses to acknowledge that that _disappointed_ noise had been from him. McCree’s hands settle again around his hips. “Don’t wanna--Don't wanna rush ya into somethin’ ya don’t want, sweetheart,” he explains, voice rough.

“I assure you, I want this,” Hanzo says. He rolls his hips again meaningfully, pulling a gasp from McCree. “Or did you miss it the first time I said so?”

McCree shakes his head ruefully. “Jus’ checkin’ that you’re sure--”

“McCree.” The other man shuts up at the sound of his name on Hanzo's lips. Despite the warmth he can feel in his cheeks, Hanzo meets McCree’s eyes squarely, fixes him with a level look so that he knows he _means_ this. “I have not been this sure about anything in a long time.”

McCree gulps; Hanzo's eyes are drawn to the movement in his throat. He bends down and bites at it. McCree lets out a startled choke and retaliates by burying his hand in Hanzo's hair and tugging. Hanzo shudders.

“You wanna--?” McCree asks, as if the answer is not already obvious. Hanzo just gives him a flat look and he laughs. “Alright, alright--no need to glare at me like that with those pretty eyes o’ yours, sugar.”

Hanzo furrows his brows, opens his mouth to retort, but breaks off with a moan when the other man wraps a rough palm around him.

“D’you got--”

Hanzo leans forward, reaching across him to pull open the drawer next to the bed. He jerks slightly when McCree presses a wet kiss to his chest, right over his left nipple.

“ _McCree,"_ Hanzo hisses when the man drags his tongue over the nub and nips at it. He fumbles around in the drawer, reaching--his hand finally closes around the small tube and a sealed condom and he pulls back, shoots the other man a flustered glare. McCree just grins and shrugs.

“Sorry, couldn't help myself,” he says, looking not at all apologetic.

Huffing, Hanzo uncaps the tube and slicks his fingers, then reaches behind himself, eyes closing in concentration. McCree watches, frozen, for a few moments, eyes almost completely black. When Hanzo lets out a small, breathy noise, he seems to snap out of whatever stupor had befallen him and says, hoarsely, “Let me.”

It takes several seconds for Hanzo to register his meaning through the haze in his mind. He nods once, withdrawing his fingers so McCree can replace them with two of his own, freshly-slicked ones.

Hanzo shudders, grasps at McCree’s shoulders for support.

“That’s it, sweetheart,” McCree rasps, scissoring his fingers, stretching him. Hanzo shivers. Moans when he curls his fingers inside him. Bites out: “Hurry.”

“Easy there,” McCree says as he adds another finger. “I ain’t small, y’know.”

If he were not so busy trying to keep from shaking apart, Hanzo would glare at him. He settles for digging his nails into McCree’s biceps and biting at his shoulder.

McCree distracts him from the stretch by mouthing the tender skin at the curve of his jaw. Hanzo tangles his fingers in McCree’s hair and focuses on breathing, head bowed, hair hanging around them like a curtain.

Finally, McCree pulls his fingers out of him. Hanzo winces a little at the emptiness. McCree reaches for the condom and rolls it on before shifting slightly. He places his hands soothingly on Hanzo’s hips as he positions himself.

“Don’t force yourself,” he starts, then cuts off with a groan when Hanzo sinks down.

Hanzo rocks back slowly, feeling sweat drip down his brow. His arms shake a bit as he lowers himself inch by inch onto McCree, who is gritting his teeth, muscles rippling with the exertion of staying still so as not to hurt him. After what feels like an eternity, he sinks down all the way. He takes a few moments to adjust. Hanzo would never admit it aloud, but McCree was right when he said he was not small. McCree prepared him well, though; he feels no pain, only a slight discomfort that is eclipsed by the satisfying feeling of fullness.

Hanzo rolls his hips carefully, then again, harder. Shifts slightly to find a better angle. McCree’s hands tighten on his hips, hard enough to bruise, and gives an aborted thrust upward. Hanzo shudders, cannot help the moan that rips from his throat. “ _Jesse_ \--”

“ _Fuck_ ,” McCree growls, and flips them so that Hanzo is the one buried in the pillows. Hanzo blinks, head spinning from the sudden change in position. McCree runs his hands over his sides, locking eyes with him for permission before lifting him by the hips and thrusting forward roughly. Hanzo throws back his head as he hits the spot that sends a full-body jolt through him and makes him see stars. McCree bites a trail up Hanzo’s exposed throat from his collarbone to just behind his ear, nipping and sucking, his beard scratchy against the sensitive skin.

Hanzo moans brokenly as he speeds up, feeling something low in his gut coil impossibly tight.

“God, Hanzo,” McCree growls, voice so low and gravelly Hanzo swears he can feel it against his skin.

“Jesse, I’m--”

“C’mon, darlin’,” McCree rasps, curls a hand around Hanzo and _tugs_ , “I got you.”

Hanzo squeezes his eyes shut as the wave of pleasure breaks over him. It overloads his nerves, locks all his muscles, paints his vision white. Above him, McCree lets out a low, guttural groan as Hanzo tightens around him, then shudders, hard.

Hanzo regains his senses and watches dazedly as McCree slumps half on top of him. They are still for a couple of moments before he decides McCree’s heavy weight is becoming uncomfortable and moves to push him off. He shifts, and winces.

McCree finally rolls off to the side, tying the condom and tossing it in a trash bin nearby. “Alright?” he asks, noticing Hanzo’s discomfort.

Hanzo huffs. “I will be fine.” Perhaps not the next morning, but. Eventually. He glances over at McCree, who has turned on his side to face him, propped on one elbow. There is a stupidly dopey smile stretched across his face.

“What is it?” Hanzo asks crossly.

“Nuthin’,” McCree replies lazily, smile widening. “Jus’ thinkin’ 'bout how you're better than coffee any day,” he adds, and winks.

Hanzo responds by hitting his arm--lightly though. Then he hides the way his face feels like it is on fire by burying it in the crook of McCree's shoulder. He will chide him later, he thinks sluggishly, when he is not quite so tired.

 

\---

 

Hanzo wakes up with a start in pitch darkness, tendrils of a nightmare still clinging to his skin. After a moment, he realizes it is just the cold sweat that has broken out at some point during the night, not some creature from his dreams. The clock informs him that it is three thirty in the morning. He takes in a heaving breath and tries to regulate his heartbeat. A movement behind him catches his attention.

“Mm, whatsit…” McCree mumbles, clumsily snaking his right arm around his waist, “Hanzo.”

Hanzo allows himself be pulled backwards into a warm embrace.

“It is nothing, merely an unpleasant dream,” he murmurs softly. Appeased, McCree lets out a quiet grunt and presses his face against Hanzo’s bare shoulder blades in lieu of a coherent response.

Hanzo feels the tension seep out of his muscles as he melts into the familiar, comforting warmth. Within moments he slips easily into a deep, dreamless sleep.

 

**Author's Note:**

> i have fallen deep, deep into a pit of no return
> 
> thanks for reading o/


End file.
